Judd Hirsch and Danny DeVito in Neil Simon's “The Sunshine Boys." Who better to play a couple of bickering, once-famous New York vaudevillians than two actors of the right age, with the right accents and comic sensibilities, who locked horns weekly on “Taxi,” a popular but long-dead sitcom? CRAIG SCHWARTZ

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Danny DeVito and Judd Hirsch in Neil Simon's "The Sunshine Boys" directed by Thea Sharrock, at the Ahmanson Theatre through Nov. 3. DeVito is the main reason to see this less-than-perfect production. CRAIG SCHWARTZ

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Justin Bartha and Danny DeVito in Neil Simon's “The Sunshine Boys." As in “Taxi,” Hirsch and DeVito portray characters of fundamentally different temperaments. “If we were Abbott and Costello, I'd be Abbott and he'd play Costello,” Hirsch said. CRAIG SCHWARTZ

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Danny DeVito in Neil Simon's “The Sunshine Boys” directed by Thea Sharrock, at the Center Theatre Group/Ahmanson Theatre through Nov. 3. DeVito was persuaded to take the role of Willie Clark for a 2012 London production of “The Sunshine Boys” starring veteran British actor Richard Griffiths as Willy's partner Al Lewis. Sonia Friedman, the show's London producer, suggested DeVito to Griffiths, who admired his work but had never met DeVito. CRAIG SCHWARTZ

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Judd Hirsch in Neil Simon's “The Sunshine Boys." Hirsch said that in rehearsals the past and its attendant ghosts keep creeping in. “One day I just kept calling Danny ‘Louie' and so he called me ‘Alex' and before you know it we were back on the soundstage in our (‘Taxi' characters).” Hirsch and DeVito played Alex Reiger and Louie De Palma on “Taxi.” CRAIG SCHWARTZ

There’s one overriding reason to see “The Sunshine Boys” at the Ahmanson Theatre – a reason that stands about five-foot-nothing and behaves like a bellicose fireplug.

Danny DeVito.

The diminutive but proud son of New Jersey long ago established his comic bona fides in a beloved sitcom, “Taxi,” and a raft of movies. His persona is essentially the same in most roles: an irascible, impetuous little man with an outsized ego and a voice like a buzz saw. A guy who blurts before he thinks. Someone you might cross the street to avoid, or perhaps poke a little just to enjoy his explosive reaction.

But DeVito has more in his gig bag. He could always deliver a bass note of pathos underneath the clowning. That’s an essential quality in Willie Clark, the character he plays in Neil Simon’s 1972 play about a couple of long-retired vaudevillians who are tapped to reprise one of their most famous skits for a TV special.

We meet Willie in his fleabag residential hotel in Manhattan. (Set and costume designer Hildegard Bechtler does a wonderful job playing up the seediness of Willie’s world.) He’s on the skids but still full of energy.

Willie is also brimming with barely contained rage over the way his comedy partner, Al Lewis (Judd Hirsch) ended their relationship by simply announcing his retirement one night after an old skit went slightly awry. It happened more than a decade before, but to Willie it was like yesterday.

A reasonable person might conclude that ending the act wasn’t a bad idea. Al felt his skills slipping, the jobs were drying up, and 43 years is a good run for a comedy duo.

But Willie is anything but reasonable. He wasn’t ready to hang up his hat, and even in decline he’s still performing. He jousts with his faithful but put-upon nephew, Ben (Justin Bartha). When Ben complains that dealing with his crusty uncle gives him heart pains during his Wednesday visits, Willie snaps, “Then come on Tuesdays!”

Such punch lines are pure Simon, of course, but here they serve another more interesting purpose: they’re a primer of sorts, demonstrating the style and delivery of classic vaudeville humor. Sometimes the lesson is more overt, as in a mini-lecture Willie gives his nephew on why words with a “k” sound in them are funny. “‘Cleveland’ – funny. ‘Tomato’ – not funny.”

These are the best moments in Simon’s rather cobwebby script. The playwright is reaching deep into his past, from his radio days and his time working with the all-star writing team behind Sid Caesar’s “Your Show of Shows,” to show how laugh-making used to be done. Despite (or perhaps partly because of) their dated corniness and political incorrectness, the jokes still work.

And in DeVito’s hands, the simple act of staring at a nurse’s shapely posterior becomes a moment of comedy gold. At this stage in his long career, DeVito can deliver a kind of visual shorthand to get chuckles. We’re so familiar with him that an arched eyebrow or smirk reveals exactly what his character is thinking.

As good as he is, DeVito alone can’t completely counterbalance the play’s problems. It’s a tic or two slower than current comedy conventions demand. Perhaps that’s a sign of how much the world has changed since this play debuted more than four decades ago, but we like our jokes to land more frequently, goosed by a jolt of shock or naughtiness. To someone who reached adulthood after the rise of YouTube, Simon’s brand of humor will seem hopelessly antiquated.

Of course, that’s our problem, not the playwright’s. And you have to admire Simon’s determination to interweave his comedy with threads of pain, hubris, regret and a keen sense of mortality – in other words, the elements of great tragedy.

But director Thea Sharrock’s production has other issues.

Judd Hirsch is a capable actor, but he seems miscast as Al. He presents a somber and reflective older man who seems bereft of comic instincts – a character who belongs in another play. How could this stiff be one half of vaudeville’s most fabled comedy team? (Sadly, American audiences will never see this production’s original Al, the great British actor Richard Griffiths, who died in March after performing the role in London to great acclaim.)

On “Taxi,” Hirsch and DeVito played vastly different characters, but the scales were more evenly balanced when they locked horns. Here, all the arrows are in DeVito’s quiver. Hirsch’s Al seems weighed down by late-in-life dolors.

Supporting roles are smartly cast. Bartha overplays Ben’s beleaguered quality, but he’s convincing. Annie Abrams brings Playboy fantasies to life as an oversexed nurse in a Lewis and Clark skit. And Johnnie Fiori injects her own understated style into an overly familiar role, the no-nonsense home nurse.

It would be easy to dismiss “The Sunshine Boys” as a Neil Simon comedy whose time has come and gone. But DeVito makes an imperfect production worthwhile if not great. If you’re a fan of his brand of mastery, put this one on your list.

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